For Love of Country
by RogueMudblood
Summary: (AU historical fiction) Jackson Overland lives in tumultuous times. England's wars have spilled over into her colonies. It's hard to have fun in the face of such strife, but that doesn't stop Jackson from trying. When the war strikes closer to home, though, can his fun-loving nature survive?
1. January 1703

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

This story is a response to a challenge issued by Robin stories. The requirements can be viewed here:

i1225 [d-o-t] photobucket [d-o-t] c-o-m /albums/ee385/RogueMudblood/Permissions/ JackOverlandWarChallenge_zps4cad078d [d-o-t] p-n-g

_So, this will be **AU**, it will contain **character death**, and there will be some **bloodshed** (it involves a war, after all). There will not be any romantic pairings. Because Jack's family is not explored greatly in canon, some liberty is taken with their characterization._

_There will be some Christian ideology in the story. The northeastern English colonies had a Puritan background. New France had a Catholic background. Those elements will come through in order to explain some of the elements of the war in this piece._

_A note on the cover: yes, the Union Jack is in the public domain._

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_I do hope you enjoy the story, and I'd love to know what your thoughts are._

* * *

"Jackson Overland!" He cringed as his mother's voice carried over the frost-covered hill to him even while his high-pitched giggles floated back to her. He enjoyed hiding in the crevices that the terrain provided, his ear pressed to the ground. Though he shivered with the cold, he continued playing out in the snow. The cool flakes brushing against his face left him with the sensation of wet kisses as they melted upon contact. He giggled as he felt winter's gentle caress against his young skin. It was a clear contrast to the rough stone against his backside and the scratchy brambles of the bush covering his hiding spot.

The sound of his mirth carried on the wind. Footsteps pounded against the ground, the dull thuds carrying to the boy announcing the approach of an adult. He stifled his youthful mirth behind his small hands. His mother's shouts were closer, and he was almost certain she would find him in a moment. Though the minister at church would frown at his mother if she mentioned it, she had told him that there was nothing more important than finding time to spend with him. Jackson enjoyed their time together, even when it was like today, with the snow gently falling.

As soon as he spotted feet directly on the other side of his hiding spot, he jumped up. His joyful giggles quickly changed to frightened squeals as he took in the tanned deerskin leggings where he had expected to see his mother's legs in his father's knee-length breeches. Another set of footsteps sped towards him, the sound of Jackson's terrified screams causing the footfalls to increase in pace. Even with his mother's voice carrying to him on the wind, he remained fearful.

The sharp tang of the blade being drawn against the leather sheath as it was slowly slipped from the sleeve echoed in Jackson's ears. Even as his mother's hands wrapped tightly around his upper arms that noise was the only thing on which he could focus. He felt himself being picked up, recognized his mother's shadow falling over him as she placed herself firmly between him and the man who had found him. The only sound he could hear, even as her voice washed over him, helping to calm his young nerves, was that of the knife he was certain had scalped many men. Slowly, as his mother's voice continued, he broke from the daze which had consumed him.

"We have nothing to give you." Marie Overland was not given to foolishness. She was aware that the native in front of her could easily overpower her and take her son. She had no desire to know what the native would do to either of them if he chose to harm them. Being an intelligent woman, she recognized that dwelling on such things would be nothing more than a horrifying folly. She chose to focus instead on each moment as it happened.

The man in front of her tilted his head to the side. His eyebrows furrowed together as his lips turned downward. Marie nodded as she took slow steps backward, making sure to keep Jackson's body firmly behind her. It was clear to her that the man did not understand her words. He had not moved as she retreated. Hoping he would remain where he was, Marie turned. She hoisted Jackson into her arms and began to run back through the frozen countryside to their home.

She was aware that the journey took no more than half an hour when walking. Even though she was carrying her son, Marie knew that her running pace should get them there in half the time. With each step, her foot pushed deeper into the snow than normal with the addition of her son's weight. Her heart pounded, the sound of her blood rushing through her veins echoing in her ears. Jackson's gasping breaths were even louder to her, his rasping pants covering all other concerns as she ran.

By the time she arrived at the door to their modest cabin, her feet felt like solid blocks of ice from the cold that had seeped through the deerskin she had used to cover them. Her son's tears had soaked through the shoulder of her bodice, though she could hardly blame him. Once inside the cabin, she set him down, quickly returning to the door to bolt it closed as best she could. Reasonably certain that the native would not be able to enter the cabin without her being aware, Marie returned to her son, gathering Jackson into her arms. She cradled him as he wept, sobs wracking his five-year-old body. Rocking him gently, she shushed him. Her hand caressed his hair as she kissed his forehead.

* * *

Marie was entirely uncertain how long they had remained sitting on the floor. Once Jackson had calmed, she had simply cradled his body against her chest, not daring to move. When the creak of the floorboard greeted their ears, she knew that they were no longer alone on the property. Carefully rising with Jackson in her arms, she carried him to another room.

"Jackson." Though her voice was no more than a whisper, the tone was sufficient to rouse the young boy. She set him down, bending so she would be able to look directly into his eyes. "I want you to go pull down the bed and make sure the sheets touch the floor. Then crawl up underneath and don't come out until either your father or I come to get you." Tears welling in his eyes, he nodded and rushed away.

Turning into another room, she closed the door briefly, listening as the floorboards of the front porch continued to creak as the person outside walked along them. Not knowing how much time she had before they entered, she tried to remove the panel behind which was hidden their spare flintlock. Her hands shook as she pulled the firearm from its concealed crevice. As she dropped the pre-prepared ball ammunition, she clearly heard the creaking of the front door as the unannounced visitor entered.

She crouched down, picking up the ammunition. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the ball in her hand, the barrel of the pistol shaking as she loaded it. Once she had the weapon ready to fire, she positioned herself behind the door, the gun barrel barely poking through the space between the edge of the door and the wall to which it was attached. Marie closed one eye, allowing her to more accurately focus her aim.

The creaking noise of the floorboards as weight pressed down upon them preceded the deep thud of the heavy footsteps approaching her hiding place. Even being able to see her breath with each exhalation, she could feel the sweat forming on her brow. Reaching one hand up, she wiped the moisture from her forehead with her knuckles. Wiping the back of her hand against her skirt, she could not help but note the tension building in her muscles as she crouched. When the steps stopped just on the other side of the door, she bit her lip to keep from revealing herself. She was unwilling to waste the shot by firing through the door and possibly missing.

As the floorboard directly in front of the crack through which she was aiming groaned in protest of the weight being placed upon it, she prepared to fire the pistol. Her eyes closed reflexively as her finger tightened around the trigger. The shot went wide, missing the leg in front of her, but putting a hole in the opposite wall as her husband Zophar's voice rang out in the cabin.

"Marie?!" She scrambled from her position behind the door as he pushed his way into the room. His eyes glanced down to the flintlock in her hand before lifting to her face as she finally stood. His brow was furrowed with his confusion. "What...?"

"Mommy!" Jackson's shriek caused them both to rush out into the hall, Marie dropping the gun to the floor as she rushed to the back room.

Opening the door, she called out to him, hoping to calm his anxiety. "I'm okay, baby! Daddy's home and mommy's just fine." Even as the words reached his ears, Jackson rushed forward, nearly knocking Marie to the floor as she crouched down to catch him. Tears were streaming down his young face, his body shaking as she cradled him in her arms.

Leaning down to them, Zophar gathered his clearly frightened son up into his arms, allowing Marie to stand. "What's brought all this on then?" He walked back towards the front room of the cabin, Jackson's arms clasped tightly around his neck. He could hear Marie's movements in the background as she put the pistol back into its place in the wall. The dull thud of the wood as the panel settled back into place echoed in the cabin. Sitting down in his preferred chair, Zophar waited for Marie to enter the room. Her gentle footsteps seemed to hesitate before finally joining him.

Looking up to her, Zophar repeated his earlier question. Marie shrugged one shoulder before turning away from him and heading towards the fire to tend the bread. Moving it aside, she stirred the food in the pot over which it had been cooking before moving the bread back into place. She stirred the embers in the fireplace underneath the large pot, adding some kindling to the fire in an attempt to raise the flames.

"I set the food on earlier. Jackson only wanted to play a bit – completely understandable. So I let him go out in the snow, and when I came to get him, we played a bit. Like ghouls." Zophar nodded, his hand idly rubbing Jackson's back as the boy's sobs finally began to subside. "Someone else found him first." Zophar's hand halted in its actions for a brief moment before continuing to gently rub his son's back, soothing the young boy. "We got back here, quick as we could." She turned back towards the pair, seeing the worry on her husband's face for the first time.

Zophar very much wanted to comfort his wife at that moment. Standing slowly as he cradled their dozing son, he balanced Jackson's weight on one side, reaching his arm out to Marie. She walked over to him, letting his arm fall around her shoulders and taking comfort from his embrace. She let the tears fall, knowing that as long as she was able to hide her face there was no chance that their son would see them and know how much she had been truly afraid of the Indian who had come upon them.

Slowly exhaling a shuddering breath, Marie squeezed Zophar's waist before stepping away from her husband. Since she was turned away from them, she was able to wipe the tears from her face without either of them seeing. Drying her moist fingers against her skirt, she opened the dish cabinet, taking out bowls and spoons to set the table. She could hear Zophar moving around behind her as he roused Jackson so the boy could eat.

They went through the motions of dinner with minimal conversation. He washed the dishes himself while Marie helped Jackson bathe and get dressed for bed. Zophar knew that many men considered this a woman's chore, but he needed to take the time to think. He had heard that England had embroiled itself once more in war, and though it was their mother country, he could not help but hope that this war, unlike the last, would not have devastating effects close to his home.

He had been truly afraid with Marie being pregnant with Jackson just as the last war ended. Only five years later, and the French were once again attempting to expand their empire in Europe, meaning he would once again be forced to defend himself and his family from the enemies to the north and possibly west as well. The thought terrified Zophar, something he was not afraid to admit.

He had managed to avoid being pressed into military service in the last war because they lived outside the major settlements. Though Zophar was born English, and he would die English, it did not mean he wished to die in a war declared by the English.

After drying the dishes and putting them away, he bathed with a wet cloth as well, simply washing away the day's grime before using a towel to dry himself. He readied himself for sleep, smiling as he found Marie already turning back the covers on their bed. They lay beside each other in the bed for several moments, silence radiating in the room. She slowly gravitated towards him, his arms opening willingly to embrace her. He could feel the tears soaking into his night shift as she buried her face in his shoulder.

When her breathing had finally evened out as her sobs ebbed, Zophar gently ran his hand through his wife's hair, fingertips grazing her scalp lightly. The measured strokes served to lull her to sleep. The repetitive motion that served to soothe her also allowed him to dwell on thoughts he did not wish to spend any time contemplating.

The last thought he had before falling to sleep was the realization that try as he might, Zophar would not be able to keep _this_ war from reaching his family.


	2. December 1703

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

For those who like to use Facebook to follow stories: w-w-w [d-o-t] facebook [d-o-t] c-o-m /pages/RogueMudblood/684906514892205

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_I do hope you enjoy the story, and I'd love to know what your thoughts are._

* * *

In the months since Jackson's encounter with the native, Zophar had helped several new families settle in to the area. He had not expected quite so many people to find their little niche of land, but he had not been disappointed with the additions to the population. He was certainly glad to have them about as a deterrent to any natives considering an attack. Even though they were not in a major city such as Boston, the news would reach them. It might not always arrive on time, but it did come often enough to let them know what was going on in the world around them.

Marie had been completely shocked when he had told her what was written in the paper about raids on towns closer to the coast. The news had not been exclusive to the northern colonies, but the details had been sparse on what was happening further to the south. Zophar had tried to keep his fear from showing as the news became even more grim over the next few weeks.

Through all of the various events, Jackson remained oblivious. He had been thrilled to have new families moving into the area. While he was slightly disappointed that many of them only had babies if they had children at all, he had quickly learned that he could get more sweets by spending time among them entertaining the children. The mothers were so grateful to have the time to get chores done, that they frequently made him a plate full of sugary snacks. He had managed to keep this entirely from his mother, even though he had to hear quite often about his lack of appetite at dinner.

Jackson had turned six, and he had counted the days afterward, knowing that Christmas came quickly after the anniversary of his birth. Marie had been quite vehement in her urgings to Jackson that he not reveal their planned celebration for the holiday. She had spent a great deal of time trying to explain about harming someone's faith and how most people did not believe that Christmas should be a grand celebration. Jackson had been confused by most of it, especially the reference to something called Catholic, but he had nodded and smiled until his mother grinned at him and let him go play.

So when he arrived home from a day out playing – an amazingly candyless day, Jackson was happily surprised by the sweets and other goodies that awaited him. He was even more shocked to find that his father was home, as he was usually not in until dark. His mother's friend, Alice Bennett, was there as well, smiling broadly at him. Jackson could feel his cheeks warming up under all the scrutiny.

"We have a surprise for you, son."

His eyes widened at Zophar's announcement, his curiosity peaked. "Did the baby finally come out to play?"

Marie's cheeks colored at his question. She and her friend Alice were both several months pregnant, though this would be the Bennett's first child. "No, Jackson." The boy's face fell slightly at the news. "The baby's not yet ready to come out. But when the baby _is_ ready, you'll know."

Zophar tried a bit unsuccessfully to hide a snort in response to his wife's statement. He clearly remembered the night that Jackson had come into the world, and to say that the boy would know when his sibling arrived was a great understatement.

"Did Madam Bennett's baby come out to play?" Marie stifled a giggle at her friend's expense as the other woman found herself under scrutiny. Zophar was less discreet.

"No, son." His chuckles punctuated his sentence. "Not for a few months yet."

"Oh." Jackson's head bowed and his shoulders fell a bit. After a moment, he lifted his head back up. "So what is the surprise then?"

Alice and Marie both laughed at the swift return of his enthusiasm.

"Well, we know you missed out on your sweets this afternoon." He gave a single nod, his lips turned slightly downward. "Madam Bennett and I thought you might like to enjoy a few at home." Alice stepped aside. The plate stacked with confections sitting on the table drew Jackson's attention almost instantly. His eyes developed a slightly glossy twinkle, and a smile stretched his lips.

He rushed to the table, happy to have the treats. He certainly found it odd that other families did not have such sweets on Christmas day. Many of the other families hardly seemed to celebrate it at all. The day was like any other as far as the settlement seemed to be concerned. Jackson stopped thinking about the other families, though, as soon as the first sweet passed through his lips. His eyes closed as the first bite touched his tongue. A residue of powdery sugar lined his upper lip, tickling the skin there, but he was too busy concentrating on the flavor of the airy baked sweet bread.

Zophar stepped up behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her as they watched their son enjoy his treat. Leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek, he voice the question he had been wondering the whole time she and Alice had been baking. "Where did you ladies find all the sugar and flour for those sweet delights?"

Alice took a step closer to the pair, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was the oddest thing." Zophar's eyebrow raised as he turned his head from his observation of Jackson. "I woke up this morning and there were two extra bags in my kitchen. So I brought them over to see if Marie needed them. When I brought them in, she was shocked because she had found extra eggs and butter as well."

Stepping back from his wife, Zophar's brow furrowed as he considered their story. "And you have no idea where they came from?" Both women shook their heads. "Quite odd."

Outside the window, where none of them could see, a tall, stocky man smiled. The quirk of his lips raised the ends of his white mustache, ruffling his lengthy white beard. His eyes sparkled underneath his furry black hat. He turned away from the window, headed towards the bright red sleigh nestled in the snow behind him. Two small elves were sitting atop the bag, the silver bells at the edge of their red hats jingling as they made frantic gestures towards the house. Their green sleeves blurred as they moved rapidly through the air, contrasting merrily with the red outfits covering their bodies.

"Tishina, my little ones. Your bells are very noisy." North's admonishment was whispered as he lifted himself into the large sleigh, patting the still full bag behind him. "What is reason for upset?" One of the elves placed his two pointer fingers beside each other in the air with his arms extended in front of his body. He then drew them apart, before drawing them down, them making them meet again in the middle. As he did so, the other elf drew his fingers in oval shapes at either side of the center of the top line. The large man laughed.

"Nyet, my little ones. These do not celebrate with such things." Taking the reigns in hand, he flicked them gently, causing the reindeer to lift into the air. "It is no matter. There are many more whose children enjoy toys, da?" The elves dug their hands into the cloth of the bag as the wind began to rush by them. Their tiny bodies were caught up in the chilly gusts with only their firm grips to keep them from falling to the frozen ground below. Their rapid flight took them briskly past the somewhat crudely constructed marker of the settlement, proclaiming it the town of Burgess.

* * *

The two men sat sipping their brandy before the fireplace in the stately drawing room. Despite the opulence of the house, there was not a single decoration to be found denoting the holiday. The lady of the house had nearly thrown a fit when one of the maids, an Acadian captured in the last war, had made the suggestion of celebrating the date.

Even with the example of how vicious the master had been with his fellow servant following the lady leaving the manor, he could not reconcile blithely standing by and allowing the man who provided him room and board for the small services he provided in return to simply sign his life away with such a treasonous act. Speaking up might see him out on the street before the night's end, or at the very least under the master's lash, but it would be less than Christian to allow the man to throw his life away when it could easily be prevented.

"Sir, I don't think it's such an excellent idea." Though his voice had been quiet, it seemed incredibly loud in the nearly silent space.

The businessman glared at the page who had addressed him. "And had I cared for your opinions, servant, I would have provided them to you." Cowering a bit, the young man bowed before stepping backwards further into the shadows.

"Now, Samuel, I must agree with the lad. 'Tis a dangerous business, this trade."

The Scotsman took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he set his brandy glass back onto the table. His hand raised to his temples, massaging lightly before giving up the endeavor and placing his forefinger and thumb at either side of the bridge of his nose.

"Look, Anthony." The other man hid his smile at his associate's aggravation by taking a sip of his own brandy. "I did not ask for your opinion. I asked for your support."

The younger gentleman leaned back fully into the high-backed easy chair. He considered his response carefully, knowing the powerful connections his companion held. While he certainly could not ignore the consequences of outright refusal, he also could not ignore the implications of the acceptance of such a proposal. Carefully swirling the brandy in the glass, he pursed his lips before answering.

"Samuel, I honestly do not know that I can offer you any kind of backing on this venture. I appreciate your position..."

"And I your concerns." Samuel leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees before he pushed himself up from the chair. "This is a very lucrative opportunity." He walked around behind Anthony's chair, placing his hands on the back. "It certainly is not inconceivable that the finances you would gain from this would benefit you, especially in your search for a wife."

His cheeks coloring, Anthony turned to the servant still standing in the shadows. "You are dismissed." The boy gave a deep bow before walking from the room, carefully closing the door quietly behind himself. Standing from the chair, Anthony slowly rounded on his friend. In spite of his anger, he was grateful that the Scotsman had provided him the perfect opportunity to refuse his proposal. "You presume to embarrass me in front of the help even when asking for my aid in such a thing?" He glared at Samuel for a moment before turning to set his glass on the table. "Be careful what company you keep. That is the only advice I can give you at this time." He walked past the other man, his cheeks slightly pinkened with his embarrassment. "Good day, Mister Vetch." Anthony was far less gentle when he closed the door than the servant had been.

Samuel resisted the urge to throw his glass against the wall. As it was his own home, he would only be damaging his own property. The renewed conflict with their neighbor to the north made many of his previous allies very uncertain of initiating trade with New France once more. Despite his assurances of the increase to their fortunes, none of his former business partners wanted to take the risk. Even when he reminded them that the nature of business was risk, they were not willing to take the chance.

Their lack of interest was somewhat detrimental to his purpose, but Samuel fully intended to go ahead with his plans, regardless of support from his previous colleagues. His fingers flexed around the glass in his hand as he vividly recalled one of the conversations which had reminded him of the debts he had yet to collect of his own that were owed to him from sources in Acadia. Those thoughts naturally led him to recall his own creditors, and the devastation that the failed colony at Darien had done to his fortunes. Anthony had been the last of the men with whom he was willing to go into business. He was grateful for his father-in-law's connections. As a result of the influence Livingston held, Samuel was certainly not lacking for anyone wishing to be a party to his endeavors, even if they were not previously known to him.

Samuel sat back down, sipping his brandy that was far too warm, as he considered the best means by which he could exploit the lucrative opportunity despite the fact that England was at war with France. After all, as a Scotsman, he held no loyalty to the English crown.

* * *

Standing in the midst of the modest shelters that the Abenaki had constructed for themselves, Sébastien Rale studied both the method of construction as well as the builders. His fingers trailed the beads of the rosary at his hip, his lips moving in silent prayer even as his mind absorbed the details of his surroundings. His orders were clear. The Pope had long been angered with the English crown for having the gall to declare itself a separate church and maintain itself as the voice of the Almighty on this earth.

As a Jesuit priest, despite its lower ranking among the monastic orders, Sébastien would adhere to his vows, keeping the Pope's word as law. Turning away from the natives he had been watching, he closed his eyes as he finished his prayers. He would go before his congregation in the morning, and he would incite their anger against the infidel. The natives in this area were their allies, and they were not a threat to the Acadians to whom he would be preaching. The enemy towards which he would direct their anger was the English to the south.

Sébastien knew that he would need to use his most frightening invective, but he would need to consider a new way to present it. These men had heard his calls to arms many times over the years of the previous war. He could not take the chance that they might not listen for thinking he was saying nothing more than what he had before regarding English impurities. As he contemplated possible ways to demonstrate his point, he heard one of the natives speaking about an encounter with an English boy and his mother. The pair had fled from him even though he had not acted aggressively.

Sébastien smiled as he realized that his sermon had just been written for him. He returned to his own abode. His plain desk stood to the left of the room, paper and quill visible to any who entered. Penning his sermon for the following day, his hand moved quickly across the page. The words flowed freely from the pen, and he continually returned it to the inkwell in order to keep the tip moist. Throughout his transcription, the dark grin that stretched his lips widened.


	3. March 1704

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

For those who like to use Facebook to follow stories: w-w-w [d-o-t] facebook [d-o-t] c-o-m /pages/RogueMudblood/684906514892205

Review responses will be posted there.

_I do hope you enjoy the story, and I'd love to know what your thoughts are._

* * *

The early morning light crept into the room from the small window frame. It slid across the floor in a single shaft, edging over the empty crib as it made its way into the home, finally coming to rest over Marie's weary form. The thin line that evidenced the rising sun ended its journey directly over her heart, seeming to rise and fall with each breath she took. Feeling the additional warmth, Marie stirred. Her hand reached out slowly for her new babe, the sweet angel who had cried with each separation from the beat of her mother's heart. Panic quickly overtook Marie when her casting about did not find her newly born daughter. She leaned over the side of the bed, fearing her child had fallen off during the night.

"Shh. It's okay." Marie sat up at the sound of Zophar's voice. He was standing in the doorway, holding the sleeping girl in the cradle of his arms. "She's sleeping."

"How...?" Her husband simply smiled at her as he approached, carefully sitting next to her on the bed.

"You needed rest." Zophar slid their daughter into Marie's waiting arms. "How do you feel?" She graced him with a scathing look. He chuckled. "Well, I know it has only been three days, but at least she did not fidget in the manner that Jackson had when he arrived."

Marie laughed. "And _before_ he arrived as well! That boy has always been a bundle of energy." Expecting to hear their son's giggles after the statement, she frowned when silence was the only answer. "That's odd..."

Zophar hummed briefly as he looked up from their sleeping daughter to his wife's face. "Oh! He's outside."

She nodded. "Ah." Her motion stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as she bit her lip. "Today is Easter." Her husband nodded, still entranced by the slowly waking baby, the tiny arms reaching upward as the hands spread open. His smile broadened as he reached his hand forward, allowing the tiny fingers to grasp onto one of his own, pulling his palm slowly downward with surprising strength. "Zophar!"

Shaken from his daze by Marie's hissing of his name, he looked up into his wife's eyes. "Hm?"

"Today is Easter. There are no eggs. Unless Alice..."

He laughed. "Alice gave birth the same day you did, dear. Jedediah was beside himself, completely unsure of how to handle a screaming woman."

Marie smirked at him. "The same way you were when Jackson was born, then." Zophar's mirth drained away as he graced his wife with a sour expression. Gently bouncing her daughter as the girl began to wake in earnest, she moved so that she would be able to feed the babe. "Speaking of our son, as I have been attempting to state, today is Easter and there are no eggs. He is outside. Why is he outside if there are no eggs?"

The sound of giggling from outside the house captured his attention. Zophar rose from the bed, leaving his wife to attend to their daughter as he watched his son through the small window. The wind swept along, gently ruffling the blades of grass which seemed to stand taller to better hide their bounty.

Jackson was dashing about the yard, bending over every so often to pick up another brightly colored egg. He placed them in the tightly woven basket that he had worked so hard on the previous month. It was his first egg hunt by himself, and he wanted to find as many of the eggs as he could before his father came out to help him locate the ones he had missed. Setting the basket down for a moment, he wiped his brow before carefully counting the eggs he had collected.

As Jackson's finger moved over each of the hard-boiled treats, he was completely oblivious to the rather large hare kneeling down beside him. "You've got quite a haul there, mate!" The harlequin-green eyes held some sadness as he noted that the boy could not hear his voice. The child was too young to have grown out of belief, so the only explanation Bunnymund could conceive was that his legend had not yet spread to the babies of these colonies. Though he knew it would only be a matter of time, that didn't stop the tall rabbit from being disappointed. He looked from the boy back into the basket. "Fifteen. Tha's a good many. Do ya think there are still some out there?"

As though Jackson could hear the bunny, he stood and ran back into the swaying grass. His eyes seemed to immediately pick out the brightly painted oval shapes. Small hands reached in among the vibrant green blades to pick out the treats. As the pooka watched, he noted that the grass seemed to part with the gentle breeze just as Jackson would step near, revealing the hidden eggs to those shining brown eyes.

Counting as each egg was laid into the basket, Bunnymund noted that the boy had found almost every egg he had hidden. He laughed along with the boy, delighted at the fun that the child was having. When the Man in the Moon had told him to bring more eggs than usual to this small hamlet, he had quirked an eyebrow, but even with his confusion, the rabbit had not questioned the ancient spirit. When he had been told to save this small village for last, Bunnymund had frowned. He preferred to go to Germany last, as the children there believed in him. He would often let them see him. Even a glimpse of his blue-tinged ears and twitching whiskers was enough for them to giggle excitedly as they rushed about looking for the bounty he had so carefully hidden for them.

As asked, however, he had saved this tiny settlement for the last on his list, with its single child of age to hunt eggs. Watching the child as he finally came to a rest in order to take stock of what was in his basket. Looking down, Jackson noticed that it appeared to be almost overflowing. The large rabbit hunched down so that he was almost eye-level with the young boy, grinning as he watched the child's eyes light up. The sound of a wooden door opening caused the bunny's ears to turn outward. Both he and Jackson turned to see Zophar standing on the porch.

Running towards the house, Jackson hauled the heavy basket filled to its brim behind him. His young voice echoed across the yard back to the rather tall rabbit who watched the mortals with a grin firmly affixed to his face. Bunnymund could feel the excitement in the atmosphere as the child relayed his adventure for the morning. While the event was hardly anything of consequence to an adult, to Jackson it had been very important, especially since he had thought he would not be celebrating Easter because of his sister's birth.

Just as the lagomorph tapped his foot against the ground, opening up a tunnel back to his warren, the wind carried Jackson's words to his overly large ears.

"And there were even extra eggs for Pippa! So the baby will have Easter treats too!"

Even as Zophar chuckled, ushering his son into the house, the rabbit looked up to the sky. "So that's what you were up to." Smiling, he shook his head gently before hopping into the tunnel on his way back to his warren. He might have a little more than a month, but he had a great deal of red eggs he needed to get ready for delivery.

* * *

Standing before his congregation, Father Rale took a deep breath as he looked down from the podium. "We have had a great victory. It was a terrible thing when the English decided to break apart the church. The declaration that a monarch was closer to God than the Pope was pure heresy, and any people who support such ideology have earned their suffering!" He paused for a moment to allow those words to seep into the minds of his audience.

"God has supported our cause against them! He brought us victory, and brought our soldiers back home to us. He brought to our bosom our friends." Sébastien motioned to the natives sitting among the congregation with his right hand, briefly pausing in his sermon. "Our Lord has seen fit to bring us victory in our recent conflict in Deerfield. We were able to rise above their forces by using surprise to our advantage. Our men risked their lives in an effort to teach these infidels that there is only one true church!"

He continued his sermon, extolling the greatness of New France and her faithfulness to the church. Afterwards, the members of the congregation came forward to partake of the sacrament, each receiving his blessing. Once the mass had concluded, he retired to his office after seeing his parishioners off. He wearily collapsed into his chair, his head falling heavily into his palm. His forefinger and thumb massaged opposite sides of his temples in slow circular motions as he tried to will away the throb in his skull.

Verbally answering the light knock on his office door, Sébastien sat up straighter. The man that walked in was scowling openly at the priest. He closed the door quietly behind him before walking over to the functional desk in the middle of the room. Sitting down in one of the chairs opposite the Jesuit, the other man crossed his legs. Silence passed between the pair for several moments, the man steepling his fingers before placing them lightly against his lips. After several moments, he finally spoke.

"You do realize that despite how you choose to relay these events from behind that pulpit, some of these parishioners do have relatives in the English colonies."

Leaning forward and placing his elbows atop the desk, Sébastien smiled menacingly. "Should they choose to swear their allegiance to the true crown of France, then they will be spared, René."

A shadow seemed to fall over René's face for a moment before he answered. "That opportunity was not afforded to the English colonists at Deerfield."

Sébastien stood, his palms flat against the desktop. "The hundred that were brought across our borders do have that opportunity. When their minister recants his heresy and declares himself a true servant of Christ, obeying the Pope, his flock will follow him."

"And burning their homes to the ground? Killing their _children_?"

Sébastien showed no remorse as he answered. "If they were saved from sinning as adults, then we did them a favor."

René's face paled. While he was firm in his Christian beliefs, he could not condone the murder of innocents, the cold-blooded assassination of children in which the army of his country had willingly engaged. He was, and would forever be, a Frenchman, loyal to the Bourbon crown. Even so, he had to question this blind acceptance of such a callous and cruel act on the part of his home. "You truly believe such a thing?"

The Jesuit stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he glared. "What right have you to question it? Do we not know that those who sin are punished? The English have sinned. They are committing a terrible heresy, insisting upon the king leading their church. They had no right to declare themselves separate from the Church! Such arrogance is being condemned by God Himself, not by us! And we have no authority to ask Him why He should choose to do such a thing!"

The flash of ire lighting the Jesuit's eyes as his fist slammed soundly against the desk top hinted to a tinge of madness. Sébastien was clearly irritated by having his authority questioned, but René feared this anger spoke of an even deeper issue. As he regarded the priest, he could feel a cold dread seeping into his bones. Though he was uncertain why he felt so concerned about the preacher's words, he knew that nothing good would come of such zealotry.

* * *

He was fairly certain that he was slumbering. Despite his limbs moving as though he were awake, he could not seem to feel any of the things that he touched. He moved forward, but could not feel his feet connect with the ground beneath. Unless he was suffering a delirium, which would not be outside possibility, Reverend John Williams was nearly assured that he was asleep.

The dark clouds surrounding his vision forced his focus forward. Despite his desire to be anywhere but in front of the altar where he found himself standing, his feet had carried him directly there. Dread filled him as he looked upon the wooden coffin lying in front of the pulpit. Try as he might, he could not keep himself from kneeling on the dirt floor and pushing aside the lid.

Tears flooded his eyes as he looked down upon his recently deceased wife. Her arms had been carefully crossed over her chest, her eyes were firmly closed, the lids sown down along the top of her cheekbone. The thread formed thin, elongated shapes of the letter x, the lightly colored thread blending in with her pale skin. He did not feel his hand connect with her face, but he could feel his heart breaking once more as he looked down on her.

A hissing sound met his ears, causing him to jump. John's eyes opened, his hands slowly lifting to touch his wet cheeks and wipe away the tracks of tears that were nearly frozen to his face. Sitting up, he looked around carefully, trying to determine the source of the sound without alerting his captors to his movement. One of them did notice, however, approaching him on nearly silent feet.

"It will be easier, you realize, when you give in." John said nothing, staring into the odd bronze-hued eyes as the man knelt before him. "You fight, because you think that you will survive this. The only chance you have of living through this is to accept your blasphemy, and renounce your heresy. The Pope is the true voice of God on earth. And your wife is burning in hell right now because you led her there with your falsehoods."

John's resolve wavered, his eyes lowering to the dirt floor. His captor resumed a resting position on the floor nearby. With the preacher's eyes elsewhere, he did not witness the spirit rising out of the native. The dark laughter that filled the air seemed to go unheard by the mortals. The malevolent spirit known as Pitch Black, though, drew a small measure of strength from the decimated hope of the Puritan captives. He might be a long way from the strength he held in centuries past, but Pitch felt his energy returning as this war gained momentum.


	4. August 1704

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

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* * *

**_ Boston News-Letter, 1704 August_**

_Major Benjamin Church's efforts to repay the Acadian French and their Indian allies for the massacre at Deerfield continue. Reports have reached our offices regarding his successful raids against trading ports in New France which have repeatedly harbored wares traded to them from Albany._

_Though nothing can ever replace the lives which were callously destroyed in February, his campaign continues to demonstrate to our enemies that we will not stand idly by while they slaughter our children._

_Thankfully, we do not have any new warnings of impending attacks to report. Sadly, this lack of news on this front does not mean a cessation of hostilities._

_We will continue to report on these issues as they develop._

Zophar stared at the newspaper, his face paling as he contemplated the full impact of the short article he had finished reading. He had been thankful when the newspaper had begun circulating regularly earlier in the year, though their small settlement had not received their first copy until after Easter. They had been blissfully unaware of the horrifying events in Massachusetts. Fortunately, when he had read the initial paper, he had not been with Marie.

Her reaction when he had been able to relay the events had been staggering. He was grateful that Pippa had still been lying asleep in her crib at the time. Marie's knees had buckled. He had barely been able to catch her and keep her from falling painfully to the ground. Zophar had pulled her limp form to him, holding her while she had recovered. Jackson had been playing nearby and had returned to them just as Marie was able to stand on her own once more. He recalled that evening vividly, as well as the following day. He did not relish telling her about this most recent news.

As he arrived at his home, he could not help but smile at Jackson's antics as he played in the front yard. The young boy had constructed a fort from the half logs that Jedediah had brought over for the fire. Behind the fort, he had positioned several slingshots, each surrounded by a bevy of small rocks poised to be catapulted toward the enemy. Outside the fort, Jackson had created frightening caricatures of men. Looking more closely at the figures, Zophar was able to see that some of them had crosses made from small twigs standing nearby. Others had mud painted in lines across their cheeks, appearing very much like some of the drawings of the natives that had recently been in the papers.

While Zophar stood at the edge of the porch watching, his son carefully straddled the fort, stretching his arms to make certain he would be able to reach either group of combatants. The smile faded from his face as he watched his son enact a battle that he imagined would have mirrored the recent attacks he had been reading about in the paper. Stones flew from inside the fort, raining down upon the attacking savages. Though most seemed to miss their mark, a few were able to connect with the approaching enemy, obliterating Jackson's manufactured soldiers. After watching the scene for several moments, Zophar approached his son.

"Hello, Jackson." Hearing his father's voice, the boy immediately dropped the fake armaments. He rushed to his father, nearly tripping when he failed to lift one of his feet high enough to disentangle himself from the battle he had created. When he reached Zophar, Jackson hugged his father's legs in a tight embrace.

"Did you see? I remembered the story you told the other night." Staring at his son, Zophar realized that the child had been listening on the private conversation he had shared with Marie. He could not help but be concerned about the possibility that they would be attacked. Riders came through the settlement frequently, some bringing tales of slaughters occurring on the nearby frontier. His discussion with Marie had been at a time of night he had thought Jackson had been sleeping. He had not wanted to concern his son with such things unnecessarily. Looking down at his son's brilliant smile, he knew he had to keep his response lighthearted.

"Who was winning?"

Jackson's smile widened, his hand slipping into Zophar's as he attempted to drag his father over to the makeshift fort. Zophar could not help but grin, allowing himself to be dragged over to the fort and listening as his son rambled out the details of the battle. His grin widened as Jackson continued, the boy's exuberance seemingly contagious.

Once Jackson had finished his explanation of the battle, the pair went inside the house, finding Marie setting the table for dinner. Zophar hummed with delight as the aroma of the corn dumplings wafted over to him. She looked up as she was ladling the soup into the deep bowls set at the three places on the table. She chuckled softly, shaking her head gently as she returned her attention to her task.

Closing the door, Jackson followed his father over to the table, hopping up into his chair as he watched his parents. Seeing Zophar wrap his arms around Marie's waist as she set the soup back over the fire, Jackson could not restrain the giggles that erupted. The kissing noises that followed had Marie laughing even as a heavy blush covered her cheeks.

Jackson hopped down from his chair, going to get Pippa from the pram sitting in the main room before returning to his seat. Holding the baby gently in his hands, he sat her on the table top. Zophar turned back to the table, shaking his head at Jackson's behavior. As he sat down at the table, his son gave him a cheeky grin. He reached for his daughter, lifting her and sitting her gently in his lap so that she could lean against him.

"That will be enough of that." Zophar's smile belied the stern words. Marie took her seat at the table, watching as Zophar held Pippa in his arms and bounced the infant on his leg gently. They ate their meal mostly in silence. After several moments listening to his son's giggles, he simply pointed to the bowl sitting in front of his son. Jackson continued to giggle as he spooned the soup into his mouth, the broth making a bubbling sound as laughter hissed through the boy's teeth. Marie's sudden burst of laughter surprised Zophar, but the mirth quickly enveloped them all.

After they had calmed enough, they finished their meal. Zophar returned Pippa to her pram gently after burping the infant. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she watched everything happening around her. He found himself fascinated by the way she must view the world. Everything was still new to Pippa. He realized that he had forgotten what innocence meant.

While Zophar laid Pippa down, Marie cleared the dishes from the table, taking them to the kitchen sink. She was shocked when Zophar's arm wrapped about her waist. She had been certain that he was resting in the main room, watching their children. Apologizing softly, he planted a gentle kiss on her neck. She turned in his arms, laying her head against his chest in mild relief.

"You go and ask Jackson about the fort he built this afternoon. I will finish the cleaning." She pulled back from him, one eyebrow raised in clear question. He chuckled. "Yes, I am certain. 'Tis no trouble." She bussed him lightly on the lips before leaving the kitchen. The sound of the dishes being placed into the water bucket and the scrubbing brush reached her ears as she lifted Pippa from the pram, sitting on the floor next to Jackson with her daughter in her arms.

"Your father tells me you built a fort this afternoon."

The boy regaled his mother with the description of the battle he had enacted. She had laughed at the way he described the catapulted weapons flying through the air, calling the pebbles he had used connecting with both the enemies and the ground through which they tried to advance on the fort 'solid rain'. Jackson was captivating as he told the tale of his exploits, and Marie was enthralled by the story he wove for her. Even Pippa, sitting in her mother's lap as she leaned back against Marie's chest, seemed to be enthralled.

When he had stopped before finishing the battle, her brow furrowed. "So who won?"

He shrugged. "We came in for dinner. So I guess the rest is postponed until tomorrow." Zophar walked into the room then, having finished the dishes while Jackson entertained Marie. "Father, do soldiers fight at night?"

"No, Jackson. They cannot see well in the darkness, so they try to keep from such engagements. They would not be certain that their bullets would not harm their own countrymen."

The boy nodded. "That is sensible."

Zophar could not help but smile at the irony of such a young child describing anything as sensible. The smile faded into a thoughtful frown as he considered the circumstances which had made such a statement from a child possible.

"Jackson, can I ask something else?" Marie hoped to keep from having a serious conversation develop in front of him.

"Surely."

"Why were some of the men standing near crosses?" Zophar's brow furrowed at Marie's question. He had noticed the distinction with some of the figures his son had made, but had not realized that it was significant other than marking them as Christian. He had assumed that Jackson had marked them so to separate them from the natives who were also present in the battle.

"Those were the preachers."

Marie looked at Zophar, a worried glint in her eye. "Why the preachers, darling?" Jackson shrugged slightly before answering. His voice was soft, and Zophar had to strain to hear him.

"Because they are the ones sending everyone to fight."

Marie turned her head slowly, her teeth visible as she bit her bottom lip. Worry was etched into her face as she realized that her child had picked up on the nuances of the war into which his sister had been born.

* * *

Sanderson Mansnoozie watched the children lying in their beds with some sadness. He floated on his cloud of dream dust, sending out tendrils of pleasant dreams to all of the children in this hemisphere, hovering above the city of Boston as the fantasies of young imaginations were seen behind closed lids. Though he dared not attempt to interfere in the matters of mortals, he did grieve each time the horror of war arose among them. He could never be certain where such an event would occur. Tsar Lunar had asked him to watch over the children here and provide them pleasant dreams as much as he was able, and he was happy to do so.

As silent as he was, he was often privy to the conversations of men. The topics did not generally interest him. Being a spirit, he had no need for the often trivial information that men felt was best discussed under cover of darkness. The tidbits that reached his hearing as he floated over the large port city caused him some concern, though. He floated his dust cloud closer to the men sitting in the tavern, their silhouettes appearing at once imposing and inconsequential to his golden eyes.

"The men we sent to Albany report that the Five Nations do not seem inclined to cooperate with our requests." The man who had spoken ran his hand through his mouse-brown hair, his nails stopping to lightly scratch his scalp before the fingers slipped from the strands. "The delegation has asked that the natives at least do us the courtesy of passing on information regarding any attacks of which they may be aware."

One of the other men slammed the stein from which he had been drinking down onto the table with an excessive amount of force. The table wobbled slightly under the blow.

"There is no need to be so abusive to my furniture!" The woman who spoke seemed to appear from nowhere. As Sandy watched, she swirled into the room, taking the man's glass from him. With one hand on her hip, she glared at the top of the drunkard's head. "And no need to try to break my glasses. If you want your liquor, you should refrain from trying to smash the very thing in which it is served to you."

"Oh, Heather, you need not be concerned." The man who had spoken before attempted to calm the woman. "Olaf was simply expressing his frustration."

"He can be as angry as he wants elsewhere! In my tavern, he is going to be civilized, or he will not _be_ at all!" She nodded her head once briskly, turning on her heel to leave the men to their drinks.

"If you keep that up, Olaf, she will ask the magistrate to lock you up for the night."

The chastised man sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Is possible she will ask. But I will not be there long."

Heather's voice floated out to them, seeming to fill the entire room. "Do you truly want to test me on this?"

"With all the Frenchmen in town, there are greater concerns for the magistrate." Sandy's golden brows rose in confusion at the man's statement. He had never understood mortal politics. As the men continued their conversation, the spirit began to feel some alarm. They spoke of attacks on not only their own lands, but their retaliation for those attacks. Melancholy settled over him as he listened to the tales of the slaughter that spanned two countries.

"Matthias, what other news?"

The first man who had spoken heaved a great sigh, his head falling forward. "The governor has not yet consented to investigating Master Vetch's activities." Olaf glared at the table, fervently wishing he could bang his fist down upon it, but fearing Heather's wrath more than he wanted the other men to know. "With Master Livingston consenting to be a member of the party going into New France to discuss the return of those captured in Deerfield, the governor is most unwilling to do anything which might cause him to falter in his attention to that matter. As Vetch is married to the man's daughter, his imprisonment would certainly be a cause of great discomfort, especially with young Alida to be concerned about."

The third man in their group set his glass down on the table carefully before standing. He carefully pushed the chair in which he had been sitting up to the table, his hands resting firmly along the back of it. "So while our children are being mercilessly killed by the weapons he pirates and trades for furs, we are to stand by and let it happen? He profits from the murder of our brothers, and we are simply to accept such a thing?"

"Thomas, we are as aggravated by this matter as much as you."

The man's eyes flashed with fiery anger. "I doubt that sincerely, Matthias." He stormed from the table, walking towards the door to pull his coat from the pegs along the wall. Thrusting his arms into the garment, his closed fist nearly managed to rend the material. In his anger he pulled the coat on roughly, one of the seams along the shoulders snapping in protest. "My brother and his wife were both murdered in their homes by Frenchmen this year. Their nine-year-old daughter was stolen by those savage Acadians. Only God and his angels know what has happened to her innocent soul." Thomas wrenched open the door, standing in the frame for a moment as he glared back at the men he generally considered friends. "I doubt very much that you are quite as aggravated by this turn of events as I am."

As he passed through the open doorway, Sandy floated directly above the floor, staring in to the tavern. The glittering spirit's eyebrows had fallen downward, his lips were drawn into a straight line. As the door swung shut, removing the room from his view, Sandy floated back towards the sky. His sorrow was palpable. Rising into the atmosphere and resuming his position on the cloud on which he generally sat, he recognized that the best thing he could do for these people at the moment would be to provide their children with the best possible dreams. There was no telling how short those children's lives would be.


	5. March 1705

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

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* * *

Sébastien sat in the dimly lit room, the paper resting on the wobbly table as he attempted to scribble out notes for the morning's mass. Despite the damp coldness seeping into his bones, the seething rage that had fueled him for weeks continued to offer him comfort. Where he might otherwise be in agony from the intemperate climate at his age, the flames of his righteous hatred for the English kept him from giving in to any of nature's ambitious attempts to finish him.

He was infuriated by the audacity of that English colonel who had burned the village to the ground. Sébastien had received the news of the destruction of Nanrantsouak when the page brought the paper and quill. He felt ill by the idea of it. The home that he had known for these many years had been destroyed in a fit of English pique. He could feel darkness surrounding his heart even as he continued writing the notes for his sermon the next day.

_How dare they come into your land and destroy your homes – the homes of your friends._

The dark voice tickling at the back of his mind continued to get louder. He agreed with it wholeheartedly – or perhaps it was agreeing with him. He was not entirely sure which. It hardly mattered, though, as the facts remained the same. The town he had known for so many years, that he had shared with the Abenaki, was gone. Sébastien wondered, if he had not encouraged hundreds of French soldiers to enter the English colonies, whether things might not be different.

_Of course they would. It was your head they were after when they burned the village. You were the one who ordered the attack on Wells._

Sébastien shook his head rapidly, shuddering at the unpleasant thought. The voice of his fear sounded eerily similar to the voice of his advocate. He ignored the slight feel of material sliding across his arm as though a cloak were brushing against him. Blinking against the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him, he strained his eyes in the dimness of the room, determined to finish the sermon notes before the dawn broke over the horizon.

As he continued to scribble his sermon notes, Sébastien pushed from his mind thoughts which he feared were only beginning to torment him. He had known that the snow in the English colonies had hindered his fellow Frenchmen. When the word had reached them that the English soldiers were pressing northward, he had been determined to take advantage of the heavy snowfall. He had begun issuing orders as though he were a garrison general. His commands had been followed without question. His native allies had quickly gathered up supplies and st out for another village.

_Oh, yes. Your Abenaki friends. They will no longer question any of your words about those English infidels. If nothing else, the heretics have earned themselves another powerful enemy._

Sébastien found himself nodding at the whispering voice in his ear. Though he could again feel the material sliding softly against his skin, as if someone were standing up after kneeling to whisper in his ear, he continued scribbling furiously. The sermon he would deliver at the morning's mass would incite the people. The English wanted an enemy, and Sébastien Rale had every intention of making certain that the Abenaki remained at odds with the colonists who had destroyed their homes.

Stepping back into the shadows, Pitch allowed his sparkling teeth to catch a glint of light. This priest would help him to grow much stronger. Grown men were so much more malleable than they would ever admit, either to themselves or their children. He felt the fear rolling from this man in a veritable flood of anguish. The more encouragement he could provide to this Catholic priest, the more fear he would be able to gather to himself. Pitch melted completely into the shadows, certain that he would continue to grow stronger the longer he prolonged this conflict.

* * *

Camille Coble held her child tightly to her as she followed her husband André from the bustling station to the coach. The footman had already placed their luggage on the overhead rack. He was not able to descend in order to help her enter the carriage as he was placing a set of packages alongside her family's belongings. Shaking her head at the meager items which they had been able to salvage and bring along with them, she placed her hand in her husband's palm, alighting carefully into the waiting coach. A woman was already seated within, a young boy sitting beside her and an infant in her ams.

"Oh! I am sorry, I did not think the carriage was taken –"

"Nonsense." André had climbed in behind her, sitting himself carefully beside her on the bench and reaching for their son.

" André, I think we are intruding..." Her voice trailed as he chuckled.

Glancing up briefly from his son, he smiled at the woman sitting on the opposite bench. "You will have to forgive my wife." His attention turned once more to bouncing the boy on his knee, even though he continued to speak. "We have been so harried in our travels that she does not understand the customs here."

"It's no trouble at all." The coach lurched as the horses got underway. "If I may be so bold, I've lived in the area for some time. We only came this far for vegetables. I'll be happy to provide you information on your destination."

"That is most kind of you, madam?"

"Bennett."

He nodded. "Madam Bennett. We do appreciate your offer."

"Oui, merci." Alice's reaction to Camille's softly spoken French was immediate. Her back straightened even as her face colored. She cleared her throat gently as she turned her eyes downward. A giggle from the boy in the seat beside her caught everyone's attention.

"Jackson!" The soft hiss of his name by his mother's dear friend did not stop the boy's giggles.

"She sounds funny, though." Alice blushed at his candor.

André smiled at Jackson. "She learned French to speak with the tradesmen further north." He turned his attention to Alice. "Until last month, we lived in Saint John's."

Jackson leaned forward. "What happened?"

"Jackson!"

André held up his hand. "It is fine, Madam. The boy is merely curious." Turning his attention back to Jackson, he leaned down a bit so that he was at eye-level with the young boy. "We were at home, eating dinner when the canons fired. Camille scooped up our son, Monty." He gestured towards the infant in Camille's arms. "Soldiers from the garrison came to the door. When I answered, I could see them knocking on several other doors on the street, rousing all of our neighbors. We quickly grabbed what few things we could carry and headed to the fort."

Jackson was sitting on the edge of his seat, his eyes wide as he took in André's story.

"The French and their native allies descended on the town. We watched our homes being occupied from the safety of the fort. We watched as they took the wares from our stores. It made us angry, watching them take the clothes from our closets and divide them among the natives." He scooted to the edge of the seat carefully, prepared for the carriage to hit bumps along the road as it traveled. "Have you heard of any of the frontier battles?" Jackson nodded. "So had we."

"André." Camille's voice was soft, but her tone was stern. He turned his head, raising an eyebrow as he regarded his wife. "Perhaps it is not such a good idea to tell him so much." She gestured with her chin to Alice, whose face had darkened considerably with her blush.

Smiling gently, he nodded to Alice before turning back to his wife and winking. When André looked back to Jackson, he saw that the boy had crossed his arms over his chest, a severe frown marring his young face. André chuckled.

"Oh, do not worry so, lad. I never start a story I do not intend to finish." Jackson's frown immediately faded, his eyes lighting up brilliantly with his curiosity once more. André grinned as he leaned his elbows on his knees. "Where was I?"

Jackson cleared his throat gently. "You heard about the battles."

André nodded. "Yes. So, we had put a lot of food into storage in the fort. We kept most of our livestock there. We were close enough to the Acadian border we knew it would only be a matter of time. And when they came, we were glad we had."

"What happened?" Jackson's voice was hardly more than a whisper. Camille shook her head, looking up to see Alice doing the same.

André ignored the motions of the two women he could see from the corner of his eye. "It began to snow." Jackson sat back, his brow furrowed in confusion. "The French commander ordered his men forward. But it was so white, and the sun glaring off the snow blinded them. When the snow melted, it soaked into their uniforms, and the cold seeped into their bones. The more they pressed forward, the more the snow held them back."

Jackson laughed gleefully. "What a clever trick!" He clapped his hands. André grinned.

"Yes, it was. Still, he did make it to the town – to Saint John's. Eventually, the sheer number of them forced their way through the snow. By then, though, we were already in the fort. They fired their weapons at us, but they were unable to make their way into the fort. The lieutenant – Master Moody, that is, he had prepared the garrison soldiers for the attack."

"Did he beat them back and make them leave the town?" Jackson's hands had flailed through the air, as though he were wielding a sword and hacking at his enemies. André shook his head even as he grinned.

"No. He was able to keep us safe inside the fort, though. Sadly, some of the soldiers did not survive the experience." Some of Jackson's mirth did leave him at that statement, the story far more realistic even to his young mind. "Still, they could not live on what little food was in the town. There was not enough for as many of them as had invaded our homes."

Jackson's eyes were wide, and even Alice was listening intently, cradling her infant carefully as she leaned forward. "What happened?" Her gentle whisper surprised Jackson, and he jumped slightly." André chuckled, patting the boy gently on the knee to calm him.

"When the food was gone, and they had no more rations, they had no choice but to leave. The French never go quietly, though." A shadow fell over André's face as he recalled what had happened. It had only been a month since that day, and he could still smell the black smoke that had filled the air. He sat back in his seat, leaning his back against the carriage as it rumbled along the road.

Confused by the response, Jackson looked at Alice. She just shook her head slightly, leaning back into her seat. Camille smiled at him when he looked in her direction. His arms crossed over his chest, he slumped back onto the carriage's bench, entirely unsure as to why André had ended the story where he did. The monotonous thumping of the wheels as they traveled along caused him to close his eyes, falling into a light slumber. When he opened his eyes, the carriage had stopped. Alice was smiling at him as André stood at the foot board, offering his hand while the footman unloaded their packages.

He colored slightly, taking André's hand as he hopped down from the carriage. "Sorry."

"Perfectly understandable." Camille's voice was tinged with laughter as she smiled down at him. Jackson grinned sheepishly, stepping to the side so that Alice could exit the coach. When the footman handed down the packages of vegetables, Jackson took them, tucking one under his arm before grabbing the other by the twine wrapped tightly around it. As the coachman took his place behind the horses once more, Jackson looked up at André.

"Are you coming to dinner?"

Camille hid her laughter in a gentle cough as she shifted her infant. André knelt down without even attempting to hide his chuckle. "I should say that would depend upon your parents, lad."

"Jackson!" The boy looked up sharply, finding his father standing next to their horse, the wagon waiting to take him back to their home. He rushed to greet the man, wrapping his empty arm firmly about his father as Zophar knelt to catch him in a hug. "You had a good journey then?"

He nodded enthusiastically, rattling off the story that André had relayed in the carriage. Camille approached them with Alice, André following behind with the little luggage they had. Jackson trailed off as he saw Zophar look over his head. His father shook André's hand, offering him a place to stay for the night. Camille and Alice settled into the back of the wagon. After securing the food packages in the back, Jackson hopped onto the driver's seat next to Zophar. As everyone was settled in and Zophar got the horses underway, Jackson picked up his story as though he had never stopped.

"And then he said that the snow kept the soldiers out! It just kept falling and falling. It came down all around them, keeping all the people safe in the fort, giving them time to get from the town." Camille nudged André with her elbow, shaking her head at the man's laughter.

Alice leaned over toward Camille. "You just wait until Marie hears it. André's going to be sleeping on the floor." The two women giggled softly as Jackson continued to ramble about the battle.

"When I grow up, I want to do that."

"Do what, son?" Zophar was entirely uncertain as to what Jackson could be referencing, and he certainly did not want to entertain the thought of Jackson leading men in war.

"I want to make the snow fall. I want to stop the bad guys."


	6. December 1705

_I do not own Rise of the Guardians. I make no money from this work of fiction._

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_**Note**: This chapter will talk about race relations. I don't intend to harp on it throughout the story, but it is a pivotal part of this chapter, and I'm giving you this warning before you dive in._

* * *

The wind picked up the snow as it blew past the coach. The woman climbing down from the carriage shuddered, holding the small child more tightly to her chest. She shushed him as he shook against her, stepping down carefully to the street. Her feet sank fully into the snow, the wet powdery substance covering them completely. Though she could feel her toes becoming numb as the snow melted into the material of her shoes, the woman continued walking, hoping she would be able to keep the feeling in her legs long enough to make the trip back to the coach for her other son.

Setting the young toddler in her arms down on the porch of the shop at the edge of the road, she turned to make her way back out to the coach. A hand on her arm caused her to turn back quickly. She had expected to find her child tugging at her arm, and instead found a woman a little younger than herself coaxing her up onto the porch.

"I have to get my other son." Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. The woman on the porch did not let go of her arm, though. Realizing that she was not going to come up onto the porch, the younger woman leaned down to her.

"Zophar – my husband – went to get your son. Here he is now."

Turning quickly to see a tall man approaching, she could see the twin to the child she had carried through the thick blanket of snow covering the ground in his arms. She noticed that the path she had taken from the coach had been completely obliterated by the continually falling precipitate. The scarf protecting the boy's face from the harsh weather had fallen down, his caramel skin exposed to the elements. As Zophar got closer, she could clearly see the tear tracks on her son's face. Once his feet touched the platform, the boy rushed forward, falling into his mother's arms even as his brother wrapped himself in her skirts to reach her legs.

Marie could clearly see, as she looked at the family, that they had nowhere to go. The porter quietly brought over the two small bags the woman had traveled with, and Zophar discretely tipped him enough for both his service and the driver's. The sound of the carriage pulling away caused the woman to look up sharply. Motioning to the bags, Marie tried to keep her face from reflecting the pity she felt for the woman and her two young boys. The woman nodded, turning back to her children. Several moments passed in silence on the porch before Marie stepped forward, the board under her foot creaking loudly as she moved.

The woman and her children both visibly startled, their eyes wide with fear as they looked up to see Marie approaching. Keeping her face as neutral as possible, she reached her hand out to them, helping the other woman to her feet. "Come inside and warm up a little." The quite tone of Marie's voice was almost stolen away completely by the howls of the passing wind. She leaned forward at seeing the confusion on the other woman's face, raising her voice slightly. "Let us get the children out of the cold." The other woman nodded, following Marie as she led the way into the store.

The boys stamped their feet as they entered, knocking piles of snow from their shoes. The pair looked up as they heard a young girl's giggles. They stared wide-eyed at the child being held in her older brother's arms. Her hands loudly clapped against one another as she struggled in the boy's grasp. Bending double so that her feet touched the ground, he loosened his hold on her to try to get a better grip. Once she was down, though, she had other ideas entirely, quickly waddling across the floor. She chortled the whole way, plopping down next to their boots. She slipped her fingers into the powdery piles on the floor, her hysterical giggles bringing smiles to the boys' faces.

Coming in last with the two small pieces of luggage, Zophar nudged the door closed, shaking his head as he heard Marie begin pestering their daughter. "Pippa, watch your fingers, baby. They cannot see your tiny little hands underneath all that snow."

Shaking his head as he walked to the counter, he whispered to her as he passed. "Marie, let the child play." She colored slightly, still wringing her hands in worry of her child's hands being crushed beneath the boys' boots. Seeing his mother's concern, Jackson motioned the two boys over, showing them the toys he had brought to town. Smiling at her son, Marie breathed a sigh of relief before turning back to the woman who was gently shaking the snow from her coat at the door.

Walking over to help her, Marie gave her a gentle smile. "What brings you to town?" It would have been impossible not to notice the tension that entered her frame. "I am sorry." Marie's voice was soft, barely carrying past the pair. "I do not mean to pry."

Placing her hand gently on Marie's arm, the older woman spoke quietly. "It is alright. I don't mean to offend."

Smiling gently, Marie shook her head. "You certainly have not done." Taking her elbow, Marie led the other woman over to the fire. "Is there at least someone we can contact for you?"

Gingerly sitting on the bench in front of the burning logs, she reached her hands forward, warming them while staring into the fire. After several moments, she answered Marie softly. "No, Madam. I have no family here, other than my two angels." Her gaze flitted from the fire to her sons, still enraptured by the crude, homemade toys. A small smile lifted her lips slightly.

Sitting next to her, Marie let the fire warm her as she watched the boys. Several minutes of silence passed between them before Zophar brought Pippa over, splaying her tiny nearly-frozen fingers before the fire to thaw. Smiling at the little girl as she tried to get free from her father to play in the warmth as she had done the cold, the other woman turned to Marie. "How old is she, Madam?"

"One year and nine months. Yours?"

Still grinning, she turned her attention to her sons. "Two years." Marie nodded, her attention also turning from Pippa's antics with Zophar to the boys. Jackson had handed each of them toys and the three were playing, completely oblivious to their mothers' observation. "Your son?"

"He will turn eight in a few days." Their calm conversation came to an abrupt halt as they overheard Jackson's innocently voiced question.

"Why does your skin look like that?"

Marie blushed a vivid crimson at her son's innocent question. No one in their small hamlet of Burgess was anything other than white. The only other skin color he had heard about – the one that the pastor was quick to denigrate from his pulpit – was red. Though the other woman's skin was darker than her sons', she was visibly embarrassed by the situation as well.

One of the boys shrugged. "Why does yours look like that?"

"Claude!" His mother's hissed admonishment was almost completely drowned out by Zophar's boisterous laughter.

It almost drowned out Jackson's response as well. "I was born like this."

The other boy shrugged. "So were we."

"Caleb!" The other woman dropped any pretense of rebuking them quietly. Both boys hung their heads as they gently placed Jackson's toys on the floor before walking over to her. She turned to Marie. "I am sorry." An accent was slightly audible in her voice. Marie had not noticed it previously. Zophar stood from his position by the fire, passing Pippa to his wife. He knelt down beside the other woman.

"They are only children." His smile was gentle, though slightly forced. She nodded, her eyes not venturing to his face. One of the boys met his gaze, however, causing the smile to fade completely. Leaning closer to her, Zophar kept his voice as quiet as he was able. "I have to ask..."

She nodded, reaching into a pocket in the skirt of her dress along the waistline. Pulling out some slightly wrinkled papers, she smoothed the creases from them, her hand shaking the entire time. She still kept her eyes averted, not looking at Zophar even as she handed them to him. He thanked her softly as she took them, looking them over carefully. As he handed them back to her, Marie noticed that his smile was no longer forced. She was grateful for that. The woman had carried herself as a freewoman, so she had thought little more on the matter.

"Well, Madam March, may I ask what brings you our way?"

She looked up at his face, her eyes reflecting tears she refused to allow to fall. "My marriage is no longer legal in my home." Gasping softly, Marie's right hand flew to cover her mouth even as her left reached out to comfort the other woman. Zophar passed her a handkerchief. Nodding, the newcomer dabbed her eyes gently. One of the boys climbed up into her lap, the other laid his head on her arm. Running her fingers gently through one of the twin's hair, she continued, her voice filled with her sorrow.

"My husband, he... We lived in Deerfield when the French came. His friends did not welcome me, so we moved from Wells. Word reached us later that the French and their allies had come there. We worried, of course. So when the French came to Deerfield, we were terrified. My boys were only a few months old." She stopped for a moment, taking a shuddering breath before continuing. "I was a servant when Paul and I met. He paid for my freedom. But the slaves in Deerfield did not know that when they told me about the tunnels."

Her voice cracked, the events of Deerfield playing out in her mind as though they had happened mere moments before she began talking.

"It was horrifying. The French... They were barbaric. I was not ashamed to hide, to hold my sweet babies in my arms as I followed a near stranger through tunnels winding underneath the city. They did not want to take Paul, but I made them." She shuddered at the memories, blinking rapidly as she fought off tears. She did not see Jackson walk over to her and sit at her feet, enraptured by her tale.

"We came out of the tunnel just behind the French line. The snow was still falling, and we were quickly covered in it. Our dark skin helped keep us in shadow in the night, hidden from the soldiers who were attacking the city. We rushed to the trees, turning to watch as the town was burned." She was quiet for several moments, gently dabbing at her eyes. Zophar handed her a glass of water. Thanking him, she sipped it slowly before handing returning the glass. "I can still hear their screams. They were so loud, so filled with pain, I thought that certainly everyone in the town was dying. The French allowed their allies to enslave the white men they took from the town, and now they play at being able to negotiate their return." She stopped to take a deep breath, her voice wavering as she continued. "And even as they spend time trying to recover those families, they use what little power they have to try to rip apart other families."

Marie leaned forward, placing a hand gently over the woman's hand, clenched tightly around Zophar's handkerchief. "Who?"

"The Massachusetts authorities – the same men who send troops to attack French villages in retaliation and men into Acadia to negotiate several months ago... These same men want to take my babies from me. It does not matter to them that I have my freedom. It only matters to them that my boys are not what they call pure."

Jackson's brow was furrowed in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but a sharp shake of his father's head kept him from voicing what he wanted to know.

"Paul... He went with one of the groups of soldiers into Acadia. He has not yet returned, but some of the men who left with him have. I can not help but think the worst." Her voice cracked as she spoke, the uncertainty of her husband's life difficult for her to bear. The two boys wrapped their arms around her tightly, the one who was standing letting go after a moment to step back and look into her eyes.

"Vea?" The boy's voice was soft, almost inaudible.

"Yes, Claude?"

"Does this mean we can call you mama now?"

Tears fell freely down Marie's face.

* * *

Samuel Vetch lit the imported cigar, slowly drawing on it as he relaxed into the high-backed chair. He allowed himself a small smile at the rich taste filling his mouth. He closed his eyes as he inhaled the sweet vapors, pointedly ignoring the sounds of the other men in the room. Approaching footsteps preceded the sound of the chair next to him creaking as someone seated themselves. Cracking open his right eye, Vetch saw the governor motioning to the servant to bring him a whiskey. He let his eye fall closed again, knowing that his old friend would speak when he was ready.

"Eleven, Samuel?" Several light puffs followed the question. He kept his eyes closed until he heard the clinking of ice. Slowly sitting upright in the chair, he opened his eyes as he slipped the cigar from his mouth.

"How many more did you want us to bring back?"

Silence greeted him. Even the sounds Samuel had expected were absent. He turned to see his friend staring at him, frustration plastered on his face. "It was bad enough that they went to the five nations. This is incredibly suspect behavior."

Samuel frowned. "Joseph." He sat up a little straighter, laying his cigar against the edge of the dish set aside for ashes. He took care not to stub it out before he turned to the side to face his longtime friend. "We had spoken at length of the lucrative nature of the venture. Before you condemn the entire enterprise, did you happen to examine what came back _with_ those eleven captives?"

Joseph rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, his forefinger and thumb taking up residence on opposite sides of the bridge of his nose. "I saw the ship's manifest. And I saw what was _actually_ in the hold. That is not the issue, Samuel." Sitting up straighter, he lowered his hand, meeting his old friend's gaze. "Those are people whose welfare I am responsible for."

"You _were_ responsible for it – until they were captured." Samuel leaned back into the chair once more, gingerly picking up his cigar and closing his eyes. "The French allowed the Indians to enslave them. They are now no more than property." He took a long, slow draw from his cigar, rolling the flavor on his tongue before exhaling the smoke. "Do you know any way to get Indians to relinquish their property _other_ than trade?"

Joseph grunted, relaxing back into his chair slightly. He was far from appeased, but recognized the truth of the statement. He took several stilted sips from his glass, not entirely certain how to phrase the response to Samuel. He needed the entrepreneur to understand that not only was popular sentiment against them, but there were political powers who would gladly see them both beheaded for treason. Samuel's huff of breath was clearly audible.

"Joseph, we offered the French things we cannot honor." Samuel looked over sharply as the governor's glass clinked harshly against the table sitting between them. "It matters not. I am not a citizen of England, nor a subject of her queen. So I cannot be held accountable for those agreements."

The governor leaned over the table, his voice barely more than a hiss as he responded. "Your argument is moot. You went as a representative of the Massachusetts Bay colony. Regardless of your nationality, any agreements you made must be honored!" Joseph's anger was visible in the lines of his face. His mouth was drawn into a grotesque moue of disgust, not believing the idiocy in which his business partner had engaged.

The color had slowly drained from Samuel's face. Waiting for Joseph to lean back into his chair, the Scotsman stubbed his cigar out in the dish. He sat on the edge of his seat, unsure exactly how he was going to answer his old friend. Clasping his hands together, he leaned his elbows on his knees, hanging his head slightly. Facing the governor, Samuel stared at him in silence for a few moments.

"Regardless of the promises, the fact remains that the negotiations are still underway. We can certainly rewrite the agreement, and changes can easily be blamed on the councilmen." Relaxing the overly firm grip he had maintained on his glass, Joseph nodded at the statement. "It is also indisputable that the best method of recovery is through trade. It is imperative that if we are to recover the English captives, we establish commercial routes with the natives."

The governor steepled his fingers, carefully considering his old friend's argument. After several moments, he nodded. He would simply have to find another focus for the ire of his political opponents. Failing that, he would require more powerful allies.

Joseph smiled, picking up his cigar. He motioned to the servant standing nearby to relight it, dismissing him once he was able to take a strong pull. Relaxing back into his chair, he exhaled the smoke, allowing his eyes to close once more.

"And if we happen to profit from this misery, what of it?"

The movement of the shadows in the corner seemed to Joseph to be a trick of the light. He could not, however, explain away the maniacal laughter that echoed through the room after Samuel's final words.


End file.
